


teetering on a breaker

by manhattan



Category: Corruption of Champions
Genre: Backstory, Drama, Gen, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the portal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	teetering on a breaker

**Author's Note:**

> something i wrote for a tumblr user a year or so ago? err ya ok so it was originally written in segments of 500 characters each (aka asks), so please excuse the choppiness

You are eleven when you fall in love for the first time.

It's the son of the blacksmith who steals your heart. You make a detour every day after the first time you see him, and you let your hair grow when you learn he likes braids. He is six years older, but you're almost old enough to get married, and the age difference between your ma and pa is wider still, so you let yourself fall.

He is the first boy you hold hands with.

A few months later, he is chosen as the Champion, and you don't cry when you see him leave.

* * *

It takes time to lick your wound clean, but you move on (do you?).

You struggle with the boys from the lower village part and you learn how to spit into someone's eye from a distance. Your father wants to hit you every time, but your mother never fails with a sharp glare and a tight whisper. You wonder if her first love was picked out like a peach, thrown into the abyss. You are not brave enough to ask. You don't think you will ever be.

You learn how wonderful girls can be when you are thirteen and you cut your hair short to bar the marriage proposals. You kiss a girl once, but it's only in lust. You kiss a boy once, and you remember the blacksmith's son. You wonder - you've always been too smart for your age - are your body and soul so cheap that they can be traded away for a herd of sheep or a new house?

Your father hits you, but just once, and your mother kisses you on the head and you never hear about marriage again.

* * *

You trade away your time for books and brawls, and grow strong and smart. Boys avoid you, but girls flock to you, scared of men and in love with the next best thing. You are fourteen when you curl your fingers inside a girl, daughter of a scholar, judging for her pale skin. Your sun-kissed fingers are dark against her nipples, against the hollow of her thin hips. She comes thrice and her lips are bruised when you're done.

You can't look her in the eyes after that, and you don't know why.

You turn fifteen and you become the most eligible villager, thanks to your rapier wit and your strong back, your stubborn maturity. Nobody knows how you still replay the blacksmith's son finger padding over your hands, shy and rough. One night, you wake up in a cold, shivering sweat, fresh from a dream where someone was pulling you down into a black, quiet lake.

For some reason unknown to you, you remember his name.

You do not whisper it under your breath. It hurts too much, you think.

* * *

You learn the art of war from the blacksmith's lips.

He teaches you how to grab a sword, how to know one, but he doesn't teach you how to make one. He accepts you as a pupil, somewhat, but never brings up his son. You wonder if he knew you were in love with him. You wonder if you still are. Some days, when you are busy with your father's lands, you still make an effort to swing by, even if it's just to say hi. You are not sure he appreciates it, but you hope so.

There are days when you can't meet him, though.

His dark eyes remind you too much of your sweetheart's, and how they raked across the crowd the day he was chosen to leave (searching for you?). Those days, you head into the slums and you leave battered and bruised, but healthier than the foes you've left behind. Those days, the eyes of the villagers burn into your back, silent, like a fox waiting to pounce.

You are not a fool; you let them look, tight-lipped, aware of your impending doom.

* * *

You turn seventeen and finally notice the bloom of your breasts, the waspish angle of your hips. You finally notice how the boys let their hot gazes linger, how your walk makes them still. It does not bother you, you think (indecisively). But you like the control you keep over yourself, and you are not going to hand it over to anyone else. You think of their flushed faces as you let your fingers drift, writhing against your sheets, but no more. Never more than that.

You also notice how the villagers have already discarded their silence; now, they hang their heads and whisper. You manage to catch the words 'champion' and 'eighteen' every time.

Your stomach lurches in sympathy, but you still fight and read and think of the unfairness of the world. Is your life worth the lives of the villagers? You think of your mother, your father, and those dark eyes that you never really got over, and you let yourself fall back into the hay, staring at the pale moon and biting back sobs.

* * *

Your mother presents you with a dark-green dress one day.

You ask why, and she shrugs, looking out the window. It's unusually bleak and gray outside. You decide not to press on as you run to your room to try it on. It's not exactly soft, but it's not as harsh as your worst pair of pants, so you allow yourself a glance in the mirror before you present your new self to her. Your mother leans against the door jamb, eyes bright and jaw set, and you realize you are almost eighteen.

* * *

You get sexual requests from boys with smudged cheeks and nimble fingers.

They say, you don't want to die a virgin, do you? They say, you'd better start practicing now, you know? You lift your chin at the same time you lift theirs, the blade of your dagger against their neck, and you tell them your cunt is not theirs for the taking. The term is bitter and hot in your mouth but it's intimidating all the same, so you spit it out when you want to shoot them down.

Most of them back down after that.

Not all, though. A boy from the slums - one with you have sparred many times in the past - runs by you one day, smiling. He is younger than you, you remember, but you also notice the way his shoulders are broadening, the way his chest will widen and grow. He whispers in your ear that he's willing to fuck any tension that you have pent up out of you, and evades your furious kicks easily. He's sharp on his toes, and you warn him he better stay out of sight if he doesn't want to get dragged into that portal with you.

He only laughs, and comes closer, offering his hands in a peaceful gesture. You frown at him, from above, basking in your slightly taller frame, and when he kisses you, you are ready to feel nothing. He pulls away, with a smile, and he says you're a tough one, really. You answer with a quick punch to his nose, and leave him to bleed.

You dream of harsh, working hands curling inside you, a soft whisper, and you wake up crying and thinking a past love.

It is your birthday.

* * *

Nomur takes you up the mountain at dawn, when you are done drying your eyes. You kiss your father and mother goodbye and you keep your face expressionless and hard.

The boy from the slums is in the crowd, offering you a smile that you still do not know how to read. Outside the walls, into the belly of the mountain, you allow yourself to breathe easy, but you fist your hands, feel the bite of your nails into your palms. Nomur says nothing as he watches you cry again.

You drag your sleeve across your eyes and pull your hair out of the braid your mother made for you. You bow your head to Nomur, watch him do the same, and you finally face the dark cave. Nomur stays behind, looking into the distance.

The portal is a vicious pink circle of light, and you start to feel your throat tighten as you approach it.

You are no weakling, you think.

You are going to bring peace, you think.

You are a Champion, you think, and step into the portal.


End file.
